


Gestalt

by CobaltStargazer



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Minor Character Death, cathartic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltStargazer/pseuds/CobaltStargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's never seen him this way before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gestalt

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on how ya'll feel about the Sperm Donor, you can consider this to be AU if you'd like.

The interior of the car was quiet. Neither Spencer nor Elle had said a word in over two hours, and the silence between them was deafening. The day was gray and cold, a light drizzle falling. The windshield wipers would work intermittently, making a squeaking sound when they sluiced the water away. He was staring straight ahead at the road, she was looking out the window.

_Just when I thought you couldn't ever hurt me again._

He'd gotten the call just past midnight, from an emergency room doctor in Richmond who found his phone number and address in William Reid's insurance information. He'd been listed as the man's next of kin, the one to be contacted in case of an accident or other circumstances. Why his father would do that to him was something he couldn't fathom. A heart attack, of all things, keeled over at his desk during lunch. 

"It was quick," the doctor had said in a subdued voice. "The infarction was serious enough that death was almost instantaneous. He didn't suffer, Dr. Reid. You can be thankful for that."

_Thankful. Right. What I'd be thankful for is not to have to be here._

He felt guilt because of his thoughts, his feelings. His father had done the best he could in his own way, and as the years passed Spencer had reached a certain understanding. Still, to expect him to deal with his death when he was barely around while he was alive... The profiler let go of the steering wheel with one hand, struck it. A hollow sound resulted.

Elle turned in her seat, regarded him in profile. It was a perfect day for a funeral, the cloud layer obscuring the sun and pattering rain down from the sky. She'd packed a bag and come along without question, but she didn't know what to do for him now. Which was the worst part. She'd never even met the elder Reid, but the man next to her was her real concern. Normally Spencer would have been talking a mile a minute, almost babbling about statistics and how heart attacks didn't kill as often as people thought, and the stony quality of his silence had her worried. She wanted to help him. She just didn't know how.

Uncharacteristically worrying her lower lip, the brunette ventured, "It was a really nice service." Her hair was still damp, droplets of rainwater clinging to dark strands. "Maybe he'd have liked it."

"Yeah." Spencer's voice was flat, toneless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elle wince, then return to looking out at the drizzle. The knot in his stomach tightened. 

They reached his building, and he shut off the car's engine after a minute. She waited, but he didn't move and he didn't speak. What she could see of his mobile features were set in a grim expression she'd seldom seen. Beyond the dry confines of the car, the rain had begun to fall harder. She wanted to touch him, but after the verbal brush-off he'd probably just twitch away from her hand. She had to let him deal with this in his own way.

_Don't shut me out, okay?_

"Come inside when you're ready," she said instead, and he nodded very slightly. The passenger door opened, the closed. The rain was falling steadily now, and Elle hurried to get inside, only pausing to look back once. 

When he was alone, Spencer closed his eyes. His father was dead, and he felt...he wasn't sure what he felt. Sad, angry, relieved, grateful? He knew William hadn't suffered much, that the attack had been massive enough that it had been over almost before he'd slumped over behind his desk, and he was relieved about that. However minimal their relationship had been, he'd never wished pain on the man. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the knuckles whitening. He grieved, he supposed. William was his father, the man who'd given him life. But the relief, the gratitude that he would never again have to worry that one day he and Elle would run into him by accident? He was ashamed of that, ashamed that he couldn't fully grieve.

The service had been a nice one, William's work colleagues and friends saying a few words as they'd seen fit. Spencer and Elle had sat in the back of the church, and although she'd held his hand through some of it, he'd only been able to let her rather than reciprocate. He'd felt too numb to do more than sit there. His eyes were still closed, and when he opened them, it was still raining. _The sky is crying_ , he thought, remembering the Stevie Ray Vaughan CD Elle owned, the times she'd listened to it while she puttered around. He wondered if he was going to start conflating that song with this miasma of emotions he was feeling right now.

He got out of the car, then started a fast walk towards the door of his building. Water splashed up around his shoes, dampening the cuffs of his pants. He was wet and cold by the time he got inside. The lobby was quiet, and Spencer's steps slowed to a trudge as he made his way to his apartment. 

Elle was in the kitchen when she heard him come in, and she came to stand on the threshold of the living room. He looked back at her, his expression blank. _Say something. Say anything._

"You want me to fix you something to eat?" 

A muscle in his cheek twitched, and he followed that up with a shrug. Truthfully, he was starving, having not eaten since early that morning, but he didn't know if he'd be able to hold any food down. His stomach had tightened even further once he'd entered the familiar apartment as if in defiance of the warmth inside. He toed off his loafers, left them behind as he trudged towards the bathroom. 

She watched him go, and she considered calling Hotch, or even JJ. They were his friends too, and maybe they could reach him. But maybe he didn't want them here. If he wouldn't even talk to her, he probably wouldn't talk to them either.

She set about putting together a light supper, just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. If he wanted to eat, he could eat. Every now and then, she'd look towards the bathroom door, which was closed.

In the bathroom, Spencer had taken off his jacket and tie, then his shirt. His hair was wet. Bare-chested, he braced both hands on the sink, looked hard at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't like the look in his eyes. Why couldn't he cry? His father was dead, and he felt grief, so why couldn't he cry? Was he that terrible of a son that he couldn't even shed tears? The profiler shoved away from the sink, and his sock-clad feet made noise as he went into the kitchen. He could smell the warm sandwiches.

They ate in silence, and he picked at his food mechanically while Elle looked for something to say. Something comforting, something profound, something silly. Her father had died when she was still a kid, and maybe that was why she couldn't think of anything to offer. She listened to the sound of Spencer's spoon scraping quietly against the inside of his soup bowl. It was clam chowder, his favorite. He ate the sandwich, chewing as if he had just woken up from a coma. He was down to the last bite when she finally spoke.

"Say something, Spencer. _Please._ "

He made a noise, and inside his chest, something shifted. His jaw tightened, and he looked at her. The wounded expression in his eyes made her ache for him, but he said nothing. He'd never been this way before, really shown her how raw he could be. They'd been together long enough that he shouldn't have worried how she'd react, but he did worry. He didn't want to show her the ugliness of his feelings. The chair scraped back as he got up, and he went into the bedroom. 

Elle considered it for a second, then followed after him. She was an impatient, stubborn woman, stubborn to the point of being hard-headed, and the man who'd just walked away from her had set up shop in her heart and her soul. She entered the bedroom without asking to be invited. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, and he looked up to meet her eyes.

"You're not gonna do that," she said, approaching the bed, and he dropped his gaze. 

"Do what?" he asked woodenly, but she could hear something else beneath that. She'd known him before she'd loved him, and more than that she'd walked this road herself. Spencer's bare shoulders were tense when Elle put her hands on them, and she could feel him fighting the urge to recoil. Her fingers tightened.

That Something in his chest moved again, and he wondered what William's last moments had been like. They hadn't been friends as adults, and now they would _never_ be friends as adults. Had he been sorry that he would never really know the son he'd lost? That he would never know Elle, the brave, tough woman who had returned to his life and made it better, _so_ much better? Goddamn it, why couldn't he cry?

He dragged her into his lap, and his pants were damp from the rain. She straddled his hips, her dress riding up. She'd worn basic black to the funeral, one of her few concessions to tradition. His fair skin was prickly with goosebumps. His chest was on fire with everything he felt. Would she still love him if she knew how twisty he could be?

His hand fastened on the back of her neck, and the kiss he gave her was not gentle. Her weight on his groin was a solid mass, and his dextrous hands worked her dress her dress up higher, exposing tanned thighs. Could she still love him if he showed her his ugly side?

Elle made a noise into his mouth, and God, but this was what she _wanted_ , for him to be raw and real with her. Spencer's self-control was one of the things she loved about him, but this insistence was as sexy as all hell. She could feel his burgeoning erection, and she tore her mouth away from his to kiss his neck. His skin tasted like rain. Her still-damp hair hung over her left eye, obscuring her vision.

"Baby... **yeah.** "

The profiler actually growled, then rolled her onto her back. A little frantic, a little rough. His hands yanked at his belt, and when he finally succeeded in unfastening it, he started to shove his wet pants down his legs. They got tangled around his ankles, and he impatiently kicked them free. The man who had fathered him was dead, but he was still alive.

Elle dragged her underwear down, the dress bunched up around her hips. Her need was burning a hole through her, and when Spencer fell on her, she let out a yowl of welcome.

Her cunt felt like silk when he slid into her, and he started to pound her, no quarter asked and none given. He was hurt, wounded, but not so wounded that he didn't burn for her. His tongue dragged up the side of her neck. He could taste the rain too..

She thrashed beneath him, and he drove her relentlessly with his hands and his mouth and his cock. He knew what she liked and how she liked it, and he ratcheted that up in an effort to stop thinking. Elle was swearing, cursing him in a gravelly voice, and when he responded by fucking her harder, her heart sang with the joy of it.

"Spencer..... _Spencer!_ "

"Come on, gorgeous." He'd never loved her more than he did right that second, and he could feel her inner muscles tightening around his shaft. That terrible thing in his chest was shifting violently, but he was too blind with the need for gratification to try shoving it back into place. This might do that, though.

Elle knew that tomorrow she was going to have bruises on the insides of her thighs, and she didn't care. If she walked with a limp for a week, bringing him back to her was worth it. He might think this was ugly, but he was always beautiful to her. No matter what.

She came with a yell, and he smothered it with his mouth, his tongue snaking between her lips. His own climax tore the breath from his lungs, and his thrusts became short and choppy as he spilled into her. She was sucking on the skin above his scar. Her thighs were like a vise around his hips, keeping him exactly where he was.

And then Spencer was crying, weeping for the father he'd lost, the one he'd barely known as a grown man, and out of thankfulness and love for the woman underneath him. Elle's throat tightened, and she loosened her grip on his waist to cradle him more gently. It had gone from harsh and demanding to sweet and caring in less time than it took to draw a breath, and she played with his too-long hair as a few tears of her own slipped down the sides of her face. The thunderstorm of his grief was slow to pass, and she waited it out in silence for a while, then spoke.

"You don't have to hide the bad stuff from me," she said in a whisper. "Not ever. I've been there, remember?"

He nodded, and her words brought a fresh spate of tears, but a much briefer one. He gingerly rolled off of her, catching his breath as he turned onto his back. She could still feel the echoes of what he'd been doing to her, and she touched herself, finding the sensitive flesh even more tender. He saw her wince, grasped her wrist to take her hand away. He kissed her fingers, his expression becoming contrite.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," he said, and Elle shook her head, her sharp chin butting against his before she kissed him on the mouth. The salt of the tears he'd shed made for an interesting contrast with the rain. "You could never, _would_ never hurt me. Or scare me, or run me off. However you are, that is so much more than good enough to me."

Spencer wondered if there would ever come a time that he would be able to shore Elle up, lend her his strength if she needed it. But when he lifted his head to look at her face, he realized that this _was_ being strong, that leaning on her, trusting her to catch him took real courage. His mouth curved into a smile, and he was still smiling when he kissed her.

"I love you." The pain was still there, but the rough comfort of Elle's affection cushioned it. She pulled his hair without answering, and right now she didn't feel rough at all. If anything, she felt positively tender towards him. Sometimes you just had to jump, jump and have faith that someone would catch you. For as long as he'd have her, she'd catch him every time.


End file.
